sunflowers and floating dust
by heliosae
Summary: there is a woman on the throne (female Jon Snow)


_sunflowers and floating dust_

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there is a woman on the throne (female jon snow)

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**The Slave Queen**

**1.**

He was a child of the desert, but never had he detested the sun the way he did then. Oberyn Martell feels the sweat drip between his eyes and down his nose, with similar salty droplets trailing down his back and his arms. As he looks around the training pits, it's not the first time he wonders how the slaves he trains with survive. Some are gaunt, rawboned in a way which spoke of years of hunger and bruised in a way that speaks of constant beatings. Others are huge, terrifyingly so and juxtaposed with their unhealthy companions. He knows when they enter the pits who would be the few victors and who would be the butchered many.

Where he was able to sit for a moment, catch his breath and take a drink of water during the height of the daily heat, those with golden bands on their hands were unable to afford such a luxury. They still continued, long and arduous in their desire to keep away from the lash of their master's whip.

It was during one such pause, as he takes a long swig of cool water that he comes across the child that would one day be the one who would play the game of thrones and win. He didn't know what to think at the start, but he knew then that she was a fighter. For he saw that there was a fire raging through her blood and honourability deep within her bones, placed there by the man she called her father and cultivated by the woman she called mother.

But she had been a child when he had first laid eyes on her. She had been a little thing, skin cast golden by the sun above, dark curling hair shorn to her chin and narrow violet eyes that spoke retribution for those who thrust her within the callous training pit. He thought her a boy at first, with womanhood lagging far behind and left an underdeveloped chest and straight lines. The girl was dirty: face covered in dust, her feet in mud, and her grimy hands unwashed and only the gods knew how badly she smelt.

At the time she could be no older than Daenerys or Sarella, youth still clinging to her face in the way it did his sister's son, Aegon. No older than fourteen, a child who already had more scars than most her age and an anger which deepened throughout her every moment.

He watched as she was pushed to the knees, her head pushed by the slaver's hand, gripped among his rings. The slavers were rough with only a certain type of person - and it was easy to determine the way such a child could break if need be. The masters here knew the art to break a person, the steady ruptures or quick rips into the very soul until all that was left was a casket of a person.

"What the fuck did you bring to me," the training master of the pits asked as he gripped the child's head in his hand. She goes to bite him, but the training master was too used to disobedience of newly made slaves. He lets out a loud-bellied laughter. "Well, that makes me think you may just survive, little pup."

The girl sneers. Oberyn thinks it's a face that many like him had learnt well in their youth, a look of disgust and scorn, absolute belief that you were better. He watched as it left her face with a slap by the slaver, but it only changes to a quiet sort of loathing. The fighting around her quietens down, though still continuing on in case of any master's retribution. They all wonder at where the pecking order this girl will go; whether the malnourished will gain one or the healthy will fight another.

He is not the noblest of creatures, especially with his love of poisons and doubletalk. But the girl looked too much like the ones he has come to love; so much so that he could almost imagine the destroyed body that could lay among the dead.

He meddles. Meddles in a way that the quiet spitfire comes to rest by his side in the evening, upon the comfort of a bed and safety in her sleep and trains under his tutelage in the ways his daughters had. Her training rests with him and Oberyn watches as she takes to swords, and knives, and spears, and all other manners of killing methods. She is fast where her strength fails, nimble where pure ferocity could have been. But she had always been a lithe figure rather than a hulking one, arms filled with elongated muscles and ready to pounce in the way wild cats would. She reminded Oberyn of those Braavosi dancers - terribly skinny but moved with effortless ease across a stage.

Oberyn would always warn her before she goes in to fight, "Little wolf, douse the fire and let your mind become cold. Think before doing." He finds it funny, how apt his warnings would be to the child.

And one day, when his brother calls him back to aid their sister's children, he needs to go. But Oberyn stays an extra moment, holding a shivering child as she begs him not to leave, terrified of the master who comes with the turn of the moon. He warns her as he always does, places a kiss on her brow and sends prayer up to the gods as he would for all his daughters.

Oberyn Martell dies a bit when he cannot save the child that belongs to the greatest slave master of Mereen. Not wishing for the first time that coals that burned in him could flame for her injustice. But he knew that the fire he cultivated was better suited for his sister's dragons.

The day he leaves, she watches him, hand gripping a Valyrian dagger he gifted her. She says nothing, knowing that there could be nothing, no words or actions that would make him stay. The last he saw of her was as she raised a hand in farewell, her face stony and strong.

A month later, days after he kisses Rhaenys and Aegon, hugs his eldest girls and spins the younger ones with jubilation, after he tells Rhae's advisors of the opportunity of the slave army to the east, he hears something which causes him to sob like a father.

He hears the whispers of how the little girl had cut the throat of her master, the last defence against the fear she held. Her punishment was crucifixion for five days in the blazing heat and her life had ended within a burning bonfire amidst all her brethren.

She had been used as a warning; quelling a rebellion with her life.

**2.**

Someone bumps into Viserys Targaryen, a woman dressed in courtesan silks, a slave if the teardrop by her eye was accurate. Viserys looks towards the woman, takes in the long, thin limbs and that bewitching smile she sends his way. He thinks he wouldn't mind a romp in bed with her - all those flowy limbs and the tangle of her hair in his hands as he fucks her would be marvellous. His nephew, Aegon takes his attention from her and they continue looking through the stalls of the markets in Volantis.

Daenerys sees different. Where she walks, arm in arm with tall, pretty Rhaenys, behind the boys she watches the girl. She thinks that the girl is a snake and the bustling stalls as the grass. Especially with the easy way that the dark-haired girl jumps at her prey. She is quick-witted, fingers dancing among arms and soft smiles where need be. No man or woman realises that they are made lighter thanks to the girl taking jewellery, purses and other valuables. Her appearance steadily grows from a brothel whore to a concubine of one of the Triarchs.

Dany carefully steers her little group of Rhae, Oberyn and Arthur to follow the girl as she steadily moves through the market. She has perfected the art of making the others go where she wants, except perhaps Uncle Art who knows her well enough and smiles good naturedly as she weaves their group through the crowds. Viserys and Aegon go another way, but Oswell Whent knows how to corral the two boys, or rather how to stump her brother's more nefarious desires and push Aegon's quiet wants to the forefront.

The girl who she watches flicks a ring with a ruby to a grubby child who scuttles away. She gives the soft, cashmere scarf wound around her neck to a blind crone who wraps it around her head, tucking it between other clothing. She takes a bread loaf in one hand and with the other she ducks it into the woven basket of a passing mother with too many children. The girl takes the bag of coins that she had stolen from Viserys and buys various trinkets from the stall owners who obviously were poorer than the rest, glancing in awe at the meagre, poor possessions that she purchases. The store owners, with golden coins tattooed at the centre of their foreheads smile and thank the woman.

By the end of the girl's movement she had gone from a whore to a courtesan and changed clothes to a warrior. It had been such a role reversal that by the time Viserys realised what had happened and caused a meltdown in markets, Dany could not even recognise the woman had she not followed her with careful eyes.

In the few moments the dark-haired girl had disappeared in the alleyways, later she comes out looking terrifying. The sides of hair brought into tight vicious plaits, wrapped around feathers, bones and other trinkets - it reminds Dany of the stories of those Wildings beyond the wall that Jorah would tell her about. Dark grey clothes, infused with lighter blues and silvers - her arms like fish scales and the cloak she wears holds a hood that was edged with what looks like wolf fur. There's all manners of weapons - a well-made and well-used bow and a quiver of handcrafted arrows, a knife with an obsidian handle twisted to look like a snake and a bastard sword strapped to her back. There is no teardrop by her eye, but the scars surrounding her hands, neck and other areas that she saw before stay, and tells Dany enough.

The dark-haired girl reminds Dany of stories about the woman warriors - of Visenya and Rhaenys, of the Mormont women, of the Sand Snakes. She moves like the water and the difference in the way people interact with her now is juxtaposed with the way they interacted with her only moments ago when the girl wore silks.

"That…that is a pit-fighter," it is Oberyn that speaks when he finally sees the girl. He stares, stares, stares. There is something like hope in his eyes and he steps forwards as if in a dream. "I know that girl – that is Lya. The Dragon Wolf. She is meant to be dead."

He goes forth, breaking from their group much to their astonishment and walks forward. The girl, Lya, is standing among some slaves, soldiers with the three lines running down their face. She is laughing and grinning, violet eyes sparkling with mirth and humour. But that all stops when Oberyn Martell places the edge of his sword to her neck. The slave soldiers hiss, grabbing their weapons from where they stand.

A hand from the girl goes up, shocking the soldiers at her desire for inaction. A stand-down. The girl, Lya then moves so easily as she does throughout Dany's entire observation. Lya twirls out of the path of the sword and in the same momentum, she grabs her own sword and holds it against the one Oberyn placed against her neck. There's a sharp chime, harsh crack where the steel of the swords come together.

Her dagger was in her other hand, the one shaped like a snake, and it is placed against Oberyn's crotch.

"Hello Oberyn. You are looking very well." There is a smile on her face now, a soft thing with not a hint of malice for the man that had threatened her life. Oberyn himself stares at her in shock, as if he couldn't accept what he saw. His hand falls as does hers. He takes her face into his callous hands, fingers going down long-healed wounds and her own hands, still holding her sword and knife hold his close.

"You died. You died, Lya." There are tears in his eyes.

"As you can see, the news regarding my demise was vastly exaggerated." Lya changes to smile something small, whimsical and absolutely deadly. It had been a perfect introduction to the girl Lya would be in their company.

**The Sorrowful Queen**

**1.**

Her name is Lyella Stark. Margaery Tyrell doesn't know her name when she first sees her, only as Lya as everyone else had known her as. When she greets the Queen, the girl is there whispering to the white-haired princess. She does that quite easily Margaery thinks - becoming a forefront fixture to any that meet her.

Perhaps, it is the scars that litter across her body, some long and winding across her back, short wounds across her arms and legs and all manner that speak of years of hardship and strife. Or perhaps it is the resilience, the straight back whenever she faces against Viserys - a sneer taken directly from Tywin Lannister's face. Or maybe it is just the continual uncertain aspect to her actions - so unpredictable she is, especially within the training mats of their army or when she speaks. Or maybe, just maybe – it is because all that find herself beloved by her, know her words are ones of absolute remark.

Margaery Tyrell thinks she's a delicious mix of unsolved solutions, an enigma that seems almost too real and obvious to be hidden. Her story, her history, so plain to the beholder's eye but unable to be seen. Or at least, it would have been had Ser Barristan Selmy not come when he did.

They are in Braavos, Margaery having finally come to stoke the flames of the Targaryen princess. Willas is already there - a voice already in the ear of Queen Rhaenys, whose might the Tyrell family had decided was worthy of their fealty. Loras too is here, which she is thankful for - a kindred spirit is always something that she vows to find and her brother is just that.

They are having a feast, in honour of the reconnection of the Targaryen and Tyrell alliance. There is Eastern music, something deep with drums and breathy vocals. The food is an unstoppable force, always coming out - steaming and spicy; the drink is plentiful and much of it already being drunk throughout the night. Margaery sits by Rhaenys, a worthy handmaiden, and perhaps one day a sister to the queen. But among the entourage is numerous Dornish women, far outnumbering their own collegiate.

And of course, the most curious is the lithe woman that sits just in front of Rhaenys, whose hair is plaited within the Queen's nimble fingers. Daenerys sits next to the dark-haired girl, chatting amicably in another tongue - something guttural. Later she will know it as Dothraki.

She knows who the little girl is when old Barristan speaks to the group. She had her inklings thanks to the stories that made up those whispered conversations of a large family, of the mother that had once not loved her but now knows no bounds, and her father made of goodness and honour, respect too. Of sisters and brothers with wildness in their hearts, even the prim and proper one; where loyalty had been bred in them the way it was in wolves. There was love when she spoke of them, hidden among misleading names and cloaked descriptions.

But Margaery Tyrell knew her ideas had credence when little Lyella would stare across the water, every few moments to watch as the western sun went down, her head always turned to face the north.

To where Winterfell rests.

Everyone within the noble houses knew of the missing Stark heir, the bastard turned true. Of a girl who disappeared on a winter day, leaving nary a trace behind her. There were whispers that she had turned into wolves that made their home within the North and that the wildness of her blood had taken over. There were other whispers that speak of her gathering a loyal base to overthrow her brother for ownership of the North. The Lannisters desire her for only her claim, after all they had one sister - they just need the other for true loyalty and there were too many rumours that she had survived.

But that day, when the Targaryen children were celebrating their looming conquest, one which could very well win, that was when it all became undone. But at that time there had been no apparent decision for such a thing to fail, except if you watched the girl very closely.

"Ser Barristan!" Rhaenys calls out, and the drumming of the music slowly becomes duller but still there in the background. The talk among them turns to interested silence as the Queen demands their attention. "As you are the newest among us, tell us news of the West, of the rebels that live on. I wish to know how they fare."

"As you know your grace, Robert Baratheon is dead." There are cheers at this, mighty things of happiness at the Usurper's death. "His brother Stannis proclaims himself King and we thank the gods that Renly is among us." Here he nods to where Renly sits with Loras - their closeness tolerated in a way it never had been before.

"And of their children?"

"There are whispers of the Cersei Lannister's infidelity - that her children are not the Stag King's."

"This is a lie, your grace." Myrcella says, narrowing her eyes at the man that once proclaimed himself her knight. She had come with Trystane, green eyes sharp as she watches the interactions of the Queen's court. Myrcella is a kind thing but there are hints of a lion within her.

"Oh, I know sweet one," Rhaenys says, placing a hand on Myrcella's shoulder. But her eyes go to her cousin, Trystane and a quick nod sees the two disappear out of their courtyard. When the blond girl has disappeared, the Dragon Queen looks back to Barristan, "Continue good ser."

"The Vale does not fight - Lady Lysa Arryn has closed it off. The Rock grows more powerful with more Lannisters in the capital then the time of your grandfather."

"And the Fish Whores?" Viserys sneer. Margaery watches the girl by the queen stares him down. She gets a shiver…a thing of fear that scuttles down her back as she watches the woman.

"The Tullys are all but gone, your grace - the Riverlands will be ripe for the taking."

"This is good to hear! Very much so - but tell me of the North! Of the Stark pack."

"They are no threat, your grace - you need not worry of the Starks."

"Why not?" This Lyella now. There are murmurs now, for no one interrupts the Queen but this insolent girl had done so easily and was said to continue do so.

"Lord Stark is dead." Another round of applause and shouts among the younger, but the elder among them - the few Kingsguard and some of the Dornishmen, especially Ashara Dayne, looked sombre at the news.

"How?" Rhaenys asks.

"Executed for treason by Joffrey Baratheon." There is a face of stone that makes up Lyella's face now, unmoving as she listens.

"And his wife...his children? Last I hear Robb Stark claimed independence for the North." The queen says.

"Yes, he did and it has ended with blood. Lady Catelyn Stark and King Robb Stark of the North, along with his wife and unborn child, were murdered at the Red Wedding at the hands of the Freys and Boltons."

"Wonderful! Oh, such wonderful news!" Viserys crows as Rhaenys nods in happiness. But Margaery still watches Lyella, whose mouth is open slightly and eyes flash with something akin to horror. Margaery had never heard of someone shattering, only in those long, lyrical tales of sadness and destitute lives. But now she does, for she there was a shaking to the girl, her fingers going to grasp something but she moves them unknowingly. Her body is in grief.

"Ser Barristan," the dark-haired girl says softly and despite the almost quality of her voice, all in the room hears it. Margaery thinks it is here that some of the older guard realise who the girl sitting by Queen Rhaenys Targaryen's feet is. "What of the rest? The rest of sons and daughters?"

"My lady, the younger Stark boys were killed at the hands of Lord Stark's ward, Theon Greyjoy. The youngest daughter is missing, presumed dead just like his eldest one. But Sansa Stark survives, but is held by the Lannisters in King's Lansing."

"I see. And what of her situation, this Sansa Stark? Is she looked after?"

"Her health only. I am afraid, my lady, that she is humiliated and brutalised often at Joffrey Baratheon's whims."

"Well, perhaps we should send the Lannister's a gift! A congratulations for putting down the dogs! In fact - I hope—" but Viserys is cut with a scathing snarl.

"I suggest you shut your mouth, Viserys Targaryen." Lyella snarls, like the wolf of her family's crest, her hand moving as if she want to slap him across the face.

"And who are you to demand such a thing?"

"I have every right to demand such a thing. I wish that the family I had followed would show some decency, some respect! Your supposed enemies, this family you would have asked to be loyal to you again, have been butchered by cowards and charlatans. You should be horrified, you should be condemning it."

"Why though?" And Aegon speaks finally, looking at the girl, unsure as the prince always was. "The Starks have betrayed our families. This is their penance."

"I should think yours betrayed them first." And she stands to walk out of the room. "After all, it was your grandfather that murdered Rickard and Brandon Stark unlawfully when all they wanted back was their stolen daughter by your father, Egg. It now makes me wonder what you would do to those who would stand against your desires - would you burn them all?"

She stands, stares at the Targaryens and with a sad tilt to her lips she says, "I guess you would. That all we ever do."

**2.**

"I am his. I am." Myrcella says, hatred with how the truth has become so accepted where once it had not. But she still plays the game that it isn't true as she knows it is the only thing that keeps her head attached beyond her position as the prisoner that was not a prisoner.

"I know my love, I know." Trystane responds with a smile. Myrcella feels a warmth echoing through her. The Martell boy had always known what to say. One of his hands come to her waist, the other to her rest along her heart. "This is mine, as the opposite is also true. And I know where it comes from and I accept that." He places her hand on where his heart laid.

Myrcella has never thought she has felt as happy, buoyant when she left Kings Landing for the South, but she is. But the Dornishman has always been cheeky, with how much he pushes.

That day, she stops Trystane's hand, slapping it away from her waist when she spots the woman running down the stairs and away from the loud screeches and hollers from the party above. See Barristan has come, pledging fealty the way she had once done. And with it has come news of battles and bloodshed.

"Cella?" Trystane asks. She quietens him, nodding to where the girl steps past the stone steps and onto the green grass. The Dornish guards watch her, but they ignore the once-slave. But it is the soldiers of the mercenary companies that Myrcella watches, watches as they straighten as Lyella passes by before stopping at the arch which holds the boundary of the property. The dark-haired girl is frozen for a moment, looking around her as if she could not figure where she desired to go, lost in her mind.

Ahead of her is a green expanse, only a few metres before the sharp drop of the cliff and the terrible fall below. One steady step and then another, she stops again. Trystane and Myrcella watch as the girl shatters in front of their eyes.

It was minute during the first instances - shaking hands, gripping at flying strands of hair and then the sobs. Quiet as the sobs were, they were obvious in their extent for they became part of Lyella, trembling shoulders and soon heart wrenching sounds. A wordless shriek was the catalyst and then a wavering in her legs, before she collapses. She is a crumpled heap, a body made up of delirious sobs and screaming pleas. Myrcella steps back in shock, into Trystane.

It is then that Oberyn appears.

"She is destroyed, uncle; she is being ravaged, I have never seen anything like this." Trystane whispers when they see the older man staring at the broken thing in front of them.

"I have, when Elia was butchered." Oberyn says, eyes hooded and anger simmering upon the surface. He takes a step forward but stops, "When you go back in there, make sure that Viserys Targaryen stops cheering like a lunatic."

And so Oberyn goes on. He shows no weakness in his step, as if knows the girl needs someone strong to allow her to break. He comes to her and then takes her into his arms - placing her head under his chin. He holds her the way one would a baby animal, careful and soft. He shushes her, whispers condolences and lets the woman pull herself towards him.

Her fingers grasp at his tunic, clutching for hope and grounding her to him.

"They killed them. They took his head, her honour, his dignity." She snarled a wet thing, a broken hoarse shout erupts from her throat as she moans and whines, a danger to her voice, an inkling of something underlying her devastation. Another sob erupts. "They butchered them, murdered them. Good gods, Oberyn - they've humiliated my sister and destroyed the rest!"

Her hands go to her hair, gripping it at the roots, "And I wasn't there! I wasn't there! I wasn't there as they died, as they were murdered. Gods, I should have died with them, I should have stood by my family! I should have died but I am here...I am here, living my life as they were killed like flies." She moans, a horrible, wretched thing, long and that it turned into another whine, a high-pitched thing that demands observance.

Myrcella realises that the girl was a child raised in the North with family a pack in the way her golden brothers and forefathers were once to her.

Oberyn takes the Stark girl's hands in his and brings them to his lips, placing another to her forehead. Oberyn looks like he's trying to get her back to the courtyard, soothing a hand across her hair. The young girl stands, holding onto the older man like he was the anchor that would catch her from the storm of emotions that erupt through her. She stands strong, those awful shudders quietening, but with Oberyn's grip upon hers, she breaks down as reality truly become adamant within her. Lyella falls to the ground just steps from where Myrcella stands, where she hides. Fresh sobs wreak her - the steel resolve from before disappearing from the safety of Oberyn's arms. All he does is soothe her through humming an old Dornish lullaby, cradling her as she sobs like a child.

Trystane tries to make Myrcella leaves, but she stays. Stays because she feels like she knows the truth of the situation. Uncle Tyrion's letters were long and intriguing in their contents. And she knows, she knows that she must witness the entirety of the breakdown. Her mother had always taught her to witness all that she can - and in moments like this Myrcella knows that whole histories are rewritten.

"I swear it, I do Oberyn - to the old gods and the new. I promise that I will butcher them in their castle on the rock, I will take their safety from their minds, and when they think that I am done, I will burn and salt their fields, bring their cities down brick by brick, destroy their entire legacy. They will be to me, what the Reynes are to them." She promises. "The lions will beg for my mercy as I howl upon their graves, because they have forgotten that our memory is long and our justice is cruel. Oh, I swear it, Oberyn. I swear - the lions will die and they will regret bringing us down. I demand my justice for the blood they slain and I will deliver it. I swear it true, for let death take me when I achieve my will."

Myrcella wants to sob and rage as Lyella Stark tells all of the damnation she will one day visit upon her own family.

**3.**

In all the masters Missandei has ever had, she has never come across a more despicable slaver than that of Master Kraznys. He is her fifth master, as horrible as the last four and incredibly more unnerving than the last ones she has come across. Her only silver lining is the fact that he doesn't seem to care about her body as much as he did her mind. She knows that her skill with languages was her saving grace when it comes to her position within the slave society.

She could have easily been sold into the brothel houses, the gods know she had been threatened with such situations countless of times. And it is her skill in languages that had allowed her freedom. Always won a better choice.

Missandei does not know what she thinks of Lyella Stark and Daenerys Targaryen. The two girls were as thick as thieves and they protected each other with absolute care, watching for any danger towards the other. But she does know that the dragons that follow them made them all the more frightening. She doesn't know their history – but Daenerys goes to Lyella with her needs and Lyella lets Daenerys calm her horrors.

She had been terrified when she had come to their room with their elegant trappings and large bathtub. Missandei had thought she would have been free, Lyella had said she had been free. Her look of dismay must have been obvious to her two mistresses and Lyella came to her.

Lyella Stark takes off her tunic, the braids from her hair and then the chains around her neck and throat. She takes her, like she was a frightened filly and lets her slide into the warmth of the water. There is no sexual energy, no desire or want from the two women. They both take wash clothes in their hands and slowly, carefully, gently, wash the grime from her hands, her arms, and leave her body clean, and hers. Missandei smells of flowers, of cleanness. She is wrapped in soft cotton, her hair braided by the dragon girl as the Lyella comes to sit in front of her.

She placed scarred hands in front of her, showcasing the wounds. Missandei takes them in her own and looks at them. She knows these marks. The stories are known part of every slave in their generation of bondage.

"When I was fourteen, I was taken by slavers and sold to the pits of Mereen." She says in the secret language that the slaves held. "They covered my body in wounds, slathered me in whips and used my body. When I got tired of such mistreatment, I decided to slide a knife through my master's throat along with his sons and daughters. I did not run, because where would I go? I had the mark of a slave. So I sat in front of their house, still clutching at a bloody knife. They found me at sunrise."

"They did not sentence you to death?"

"They did. I burned in the sun for four days and wept for four nights. On the fifth day, they allowed me to drink as they took me to my funeral pyre. It had been the first and only moment of kindness they gave me. But then they withdrew the water and poured what remained into the seas surrounding the place where they hoped that I would die. I was still parched as they tried to burn me."

"The Dragon Wolf." She whispers; Missandei had known the story, it had been told, whispered the ways legends slowly were formed.

"They should have hung me, taken my head - but the fire saved me, it revitalised me. In burning me, they killed the girl they destroyed and from the ashes, I arose, a being of dreadful anger and hopeless rage. And so I ran and in doing so, I decided to aid all those in bondage, all those that have been made less than human. And so I promise you, Missandei of Naath, I will never force you to do what you never want and be assured that your hands will remain free for as long as you live."

"As will I." And there, Daenerys Stormborn promises in a perfect rendition of their secret language. "When I left my blood, I had vowed to aid Lyella Stark in her pursuits, I vowed to see her desire to make the crown her brother was given to never be surrendered, her blood has been murdered and so her vengeance will be just and absolute; will you aid me in this coming to pass, Missandei?"

And for the first time for a very long time, Missandei of Naath, Missandei, the voice that would be of Lyella Stark, their people's scream of freedom, chooses: "I do."

The next day, Astapor was a city of fire, the rivers were dried and the dragons made the world of the masters a terrible place. Lyella Stark watched with callous eyes as every man, woman and child that raised a hand against her people died in the agony they had wished upon her. She watched as legions of slaves shout their exalted joy high into the skies, the slave army through their weapons to the ground. And there, these people who had been promised would never have to bend, did so - happily and freely as Lyella Stark promises hope and freedom.

A week after that Yunkai wasn't a city found in the dry desert as it was the desert. The city crumbled and the dead masters were picked apart by wild dogs and vultures. Days turned and the sea was on fire around Meereen - their navy became toothpicks in the water, and the waters were dyed a dull red. The masters were crucified and Lyella Stark remained in a rotting city as every one of the monsters who laughed at her pilfered childhood, died. She had gone up against each and every master and told them her name, watching as they realise exactly who she was, how their actions had led to their death. The pits were flooded and dull wooden swords floated among the debris.

Throughout the next days, the legend of the horrible desires and hunger of the Dragon Wolf became a warning to any that would believe slavery would be a profitable avenue. Whispers erupted among those terrified few who survived the cullings, of the girl whose hunger for freedom was so great that she devoured whole cities for it.

**The Northern Queen**

**1.**

Catelyn Stark had always hated the gods when it came to Lyella Stark. A long time ago her anger had been directed to Ned, furious and swift in her hatred of this young, motherless child that always looked at her with those giant, giant violet eyes. She had hated Ashara Dayne too. But now her rage was to the gods for they were sparing when it came to providing Lyella Stark the shred of happiness she had always deserved. And her terrible anger had also been directed to the dead dragons for the horrors that had led to the girl's birth. She has been cursed for the unfortunate nature of her birth.

Lyella Stark had been born in the burning sands of Dorne, but had grown in the bosom of the frozen wastelands of the North.

The girl had loved these cold lands in ways that not even Ned or her children could ever emulate. She would listen to Old Nan's stories, believe that they were true - these whispers of the Others, of the rising undead, of giants and great hulking animals with tusks. She was a child of the Northern gods, where the Godswood would crowd around her, the trees almost groaning in their desire to surround her. Cat never knew if it was because the trees wanted to bring within their confines, make her a part of their old histories or whether they moved their tendrils like they did with they saw the sun.

And, the more she had known the girl with violet eyes, the more she had realised that the girl was the sun in which her whole family had revolved around. It had been a quiet thing, her grip and the mother had known that it wasn't a malicious grip, but rather that desire to keep loved ones close. Cat had been the last to be gripped by her, and by that point it was too late for her to burn the bridges she had once desired torn down.

It had started at the hot springs, on a cold winter's day. It had been three years since winter had first gripped their world, two since the Rebellion and one year since Ned came back with the bastard girl in his hands. It had been only the four of them at the time: Ned, Robb, Lyella and herself. It had been a fluke, a moment of talk that had led to it, her realisation of the truth.

She was talking about their low grain stores and how they would need to import some for the Reach and the Riverlands if they wished to continue without a famine seeping through the land. Robb had been splashing by the pool, pudgy legs and arms splashing to and fro. Cat had thought Lya to be with him, splashing him back. But as they look up, Robb is by himself and Lyella was too far away.

There were numerous hot springs - most of which ranged from lukewarm to a pleasant heat. But there had been one close enough to their underground warmth that was much too hot for going in. But there was Lyella, carefully splashing the water, sitting on a rock and half-submerged.

It should have scolded her. It should have made massive welts of blisters upon her body. The little wolf pup should have been screaming and screaming with the terrible heat that expounded from the spring. But there she was, as red as the three of them, if not less, and frolicking the way Robb was. She giggled at the popping bubbles.

She was there in a quick moment, the warmth of the waters heating her hands unbearably so. It had been the instinct of a mother when faced with a child in danger, her child in danger. She had taken Lyella out, and placed her in the snow surrounding the spring. It was then the girl started blubbering long and loud. Whining against the cold as she leaned to stand, desiring to toddle over towards where the hot spring laid.

Catelyn Stark takes little Lyella Snow, little Lya, the wolf cub of Ned's and brings her over towards the hot spring where her husband and son laid. Ned was halfway out, horror plain across his face. But she held to the too-warm child and placed her on her lap, facing her.

There she sat, ignoring the fussing of her husband and the peeps from Robb. Instead she gazed towards the little girl in her hands and looked at her for the first time in a different light, in a true light. It was as if something had decided to click and made her realise what a dreadful leviathan she had become.

While this girl was a Stark, that long face and her colouring, there were other bits there as well. The Dornish curls, the Valyrian eyes and the fine, aristocratic creatures that only one family held. Only one family had the blood that did not burn.

"This is not your daughter." She says, the silence is damning and she does look at her husband. Cat does not want to know what other the lies have been placed between them. "She is the daughter of your sister, she is the daughter of Lyanna Stark."

"Yes."

That night and for many nights Catelyn Stark does not speak with her husband. She sleeps within the rooms of her children. For those days Robb snuggles into her, but Lyella, all of three years old had known the negligence she had shows her, stays away within her own cot.

Cat gets out from the covers, the warmth of her time by Robb seeping with the coldness. Every step she takes from the furnace in the centre of the room and close to the crib by the window, hatred welling within her more and more. She thinks of herself as vile and wretched, a woman undeserving of kindness and love. She stands by the crib of Lyella.

Lyella – as much a dragon name, as it was a wolf name. So obvious, hidden in her husband's careful subterfuge but obvious when one knows what to look for. Ned never had the head for lies.

She places a hand through the dark curls, and then lets it drop down to the light skin. Northern colouring on Valyrian features. Lyella is beautiful - different compared to her own Robb, who even now had the hints of the handsome charm he would grow into. She is enchanting, glorious in the way great creatures normally were.

"I am sorry. I am so very sorry." Cat whispers. "I promise, in the eyes of my gods and yours - I shall be the mother that you deserve little one."

The girl starts to move, whining slightly as she wakes and stares blearily up at her, and a single word clenches at Cat's heart. "Mama?"

"Come little one, you must be cold."

She places little Lyella Snow, a girl who loved warmth that came with a hearth in the cold of winter, in between herself and Robb. She latches onto the two of them - arms entwining into the dressing gown Cat wore to bed and stubby legs wrapped around her brother's, her cousin's. Cat realised that the girl had always seemed out the warmth, and she would never begrudge such a thing.

The next morning, the first time she had talked to Ned for a long time, she orders him to have Robert Baratheon legitimise the girl.

**2.**

There is not much that terrifies Yves of the Free Folk. He had lived the entirety of his life beyond the wall, where winter keeps an iron grip and the dead walk. He had lived through the Great Sickness that had taken his mother and sisters from him, and had faced down the Night King with nothing by a black dagger. He has cursed Castor to his face, and spat in the face of Thenns, smiling gleefully as he did. He had scaled the Great Wall and travelled the Southern lands, so far from the world he called home.

But never had he faced a terror the way he had then. There is a direwolf, a white thing with terrible red eyes, snapping her jaws close enough that he can smell the putrid dog breath on her. He is clutching at the snow, at the ground. He does not feel the cold, how could he when a thing of legends faces down him.

It is a dragon. Great, colossal thing with scales that glittered white in light but sat dark where it didn't. A long wingspan, with a roar that heralded destruction; it is more shrill than a low rumble, an awful impersonation of a song as it snarls to the air. Yves is man enough to own up to the fact that he had shrieked when he heard it for the first time. He sees the flames revolve in the mouth, the direwolf keeping him from running.

"Catalyon! Ghost!" There is a sharp whistle and the pure muscle of the beasts leave him. A powerful gust of cold wind as the dragon moves from above him, using their wings to keep itself steady. It's a girl - tiny, tiny thing with a massive of dark curls unlike anything he had seen before. A long face and eyes the colour of glaciers - a light violet, almost grey now - pale and terrible. Yves gulps, fingering the dagger by his side. He thinks that must be one of the Others, perhaps one of the royal ones even. But on second glance - her skin is too touched by the sun and they are out during the day, the monsters had always loved the night. "And who might _you _be?"

Yves gulps as he gets up. The woman is smaller than him, he had always been a tall, lean figure and normally one of the tallest among his people. There are still days where rubs into Tormund's face that he was taller than him. But now this woman makes him feel like a mixture between a giant and a small child. She had a multitude of weapons on her - a sword and several daggers, shining and glinting in the light. She seems like a spearwife, but her independence is obvious.

"You're no Mance Rayder, that's for sure. I hear he's no delicate thing like you are." The way she says it, with a sly smirk riles him up.

"Delicate! Delicate!" He snorts, all bravado and idiocy as Val likes to say. "You know nothing, lassie."

"Obviously." She says, deadpanned. She places a hand to scratch at the wolf's head. "If you're not Mance, then who are you, wildling?"

"I ain't no wildling, kneeler. I am part of the Free Folk." He snaps, he knows what those Southerners think of people like him. Savages, brutal murderers and cannibals. Rotten creatures that deserve to be eradicated. "And shouldn't you introduce yourself before demanding names, Southerner? What is something like you doing here?"

"I am no kneeler." She says, the smile telling him of secrets he was not privy to. "If you do not know Mance Rayder than you are no use to me."

"Why do you want Mance?"

"Ah, so you do know him."

"Everyone knows him."

"But I'm sure not everyone calls the King-Beyond-The-Wall by his first name and so freely too? I've found kings to be the same everywhere, don't you?" She says with a smile. Yves smirk falls and he wants to take hold of her shoulders and shake her. She wants something, and he hasn't survived this long to die at the ministrations of a kneeling bastard. But the hulking beasts behind her seem to know what he wants to do, they hiss low and the sound rumble from their stomachs.

She places a hand up, quieting the creatures. Yves can't help but admire the surety that such a command would be listened to by animals. But it was.

"Your king has three problems that I'm hoping to answer. The first are the soldiers of the Night Watch he has among them, his keeping them has caused the Lord Commander anger and willing to barter with the wrong man. And the second is the man that Lord Commander seems to think appropriate to ally with himself - I assure you: Stannis Baratheon will kill you all, every child, woman and man. And the third? Well - there is a reason why you're all wishing to come down to where we kneelers live."

"What do you want, kneeler?"

"I said I'm no kneeler."

"Fine, what do you want Southerner?" She smiles, a startling thing because Yves thinks she's terribly pretty. The smile just cements it and he realises, oh, yes – this is _her_.

"I would like to meet Mance Rayder. Tell him to come to Castle Black, tell him the Queen of the North wishes to speak to him." She goes to walk towards the dragon, the one which watches him with beady little eyes, she stops half-turning now. "I never caught your name."

"Nor I yours."

The girl smiles then and says, "Lyella."

"Yves."

It's not a smile now, but rather an assessing look as she takes Yves in. He feels like he is being judged, her eyes stay upon his bow and arrow, his clothing and then to his eyes. What she finds must be to her liking as she nods, and said, "I do hope you come too freeman. Those folk down there," she nods to where the Wall stood imposingly huge, "They're going to need someone like you."

And for a stupid moment, Yves hopes she needs someone like him.

**3.**

Walda Bolton stares up at the family of five. Winterfell is in ruins around them, dragonfire having melt corpses of her opposing faction and the stampede of several armies had decimated the peaceful landscape around it. And now, at its culmination, the winner sits on the wooden seat at the end of the hall. Eight thousand years the Starks had ruled the North, a quiet and sure grip on the region, beloved by most until the North ran to ruin by the new generation; but like all ruling families, it had no desire for such power to disappear from their hands. And the remaining members of the new generation were much more callous and deciding in their alliances and acceptance.

They had taken what they believed was theirs with brutality and absolute savagery. As Walda looks upon them, she stares at the one in the middle, the one that all pronounce to be the Northern Queen. Around her stand savages and madmen and barbarians; the Wildlings, the three companies that came from the east, the freed slaves so obviously different from the Northmen Walda had made her home with. But this did not mean that the Northern families did not follow her, as around her sat Glovers, and Mormonts and Reeds, and Manderleys too. The new generation that Lyella Stark was said to have curated within her fourteen years before she fled due to the blood of her father.

And wasn't that a surprise.

When she had come to the gates of Winterfell that morning, to treat with them, where Roose believed he held the upper hand, that all fled with the coming of the dragon. It was a great hulking white thing that matched well with the snarling wolf by her side. Behind her stood her remaining family, all the Starks – a pack as they were meant to be. And with them, stood proudly the other dragon princess, the girl who was taken in as part of the family despite the actions of her father.

And now, the wolves are high upon the stones of Winterfell, banners swaying proudly within the huffs of wind. Inside, the keep all mention of the Boltons was burned, ripped, destroyed in bouts of frenzy by the loyal wildlings. The direwolves now prowl the rooms, watching those their human half believes to be against them.

Walda doesn't like the one called Ghost, who stares at with what could be considered hatred. She wonders if Robb Stark's direwolf had done the same thing. But she's pretty sure that those red eyes made it only worse, it made Walda feel like the absolute dregs for what she's aided in.

She knows it's a scare tactic to stop them from doing anything. They await their punishment for their deeds, for wrenching the power from the Starks. The Bolton family should have realised that when a family holds on for eight thousand years, there is an absoluteness to it.

Lyella Stark raises a hand, high above her head and quietening the entirety of the hall. She sits with her council, up high on the table and looks down, down, down until Walda Bolton feels like a tiny little thing, not fit to stare upon such a woman. The queen is unsettling, with those sharp glacier violet eyes, terrible scars that peak out of her clothes, a look that would put Roose to shame about her thoughts.

"The Bolton family once held absolute loyalty to House Stark. And they become traitors, murdering my mother, Catelyn Stark," from here the River Lords hiss in condemnation. "They butchered my goodsister and her unborn child!" And there the children of Essos cry out in rage. "And my brother, the king you chose, Robb Stark of Winterfell, was slaughtered by the men in front of you!" She snarled, those eyes burning, burning with wildness and hysterical anger. "I ask my brethren, my people, to advise me the action to take in regards to these treacherous creatures."

"They should die." Arya Stark's words sounds like a damnation, abrupt and terrible. "Slit their throats, put arrows through their hearts, and stab too many daggers through their chests." There are choruses of shouts and banging across the tables in agreement, cheers for death and justice.

"Let them die." The eastern woman, Missandei says, eyes sharp as she stares down. "They murdered your brethren and took what was not theirs. Let them feel your justice, your grace."

"Death would be too kind, little queen," Mance Rayder says, still dressed in the furs of the Wildlings to the North. There is a red-haired wildling boy stands behind the queen, as he had since the moment the queen found the wildlings agreeing to her terms. He's a constant presence, had been there when they came for their failed treaty. Now, he has a hand on her shoulder as she listens to her people decide Walda's fate. "But death is what awaits the fucking traitors."

"They are like my father." Daenerys says. "With madness in their head and dishonour welded in their hands. Put them down like my father was."

"I only wonder, Queen Lyella, with the war to the North, whether we should be killing two abled men who could fight alongside the living." The red-haired wildling says. The girl looks contemplative at that.

For the first time since she had seen the ferocious lady, Walda thinks she looks terribly young. She looks indecisive staring at the remaining Boltons. There is still youth on her face, not fully matured and despite her confidence and her ability to order an army of fifty thousand, she was still just on the cusp of adulthood.

"And what would you have me do?" The Queen asks, looking now at the four of her family. "What should I do with you Roose, who had been loyal to my father for decades? What of you Ramsay, I have heard of your deeds – your vile, vile actions and desires. And what of you Walda – you who share blood with both families that wished ruin on mine? And what of the little Bolton, who has not a name, should I see upon him what I saw upon the Freys? My, you're very alike to my family at their deaths. A parent, a son, a wife and a baby."

"Have mercy," she whined, on her knees in front of the new queen. Lyella Stark stared down with a cruel look on her face, an awful, thunderous thing. "My son, my son is only a few months old, your grace, I beg of you, I beg." She grabs at the woman's cloak, holding it within white knuckled fingers.

"Mercy?" She whispered, low and dangerous, "Mercy. Of course you would ask of it." She said, looking away from Walda and at the boy in Sansa Stark's arms, her son, her only precious son. "I will give him the only mercy your husband and his ilk showed my mother when they butchered my brother in front of her eyes. I will show him the only mercy when my brother's unborn child was murdered as his wife's lifeblood left her. The only mercy that I will show you, is that I will not do it in front of you."

When she faces the sword, the Northern Queen bends to look towards her sobbing face. She brings up her head, pulling at hair and she had her face those that watched, both smallfolk and high alike.

"That family, second row from the front." She whispers in her ear. "Be at peace that they will look after your son following your death. They have named him Ned. A strong name, a good name – and a name that will hold respect."

And Walda Frey dies, knowing that her son survives even without the name Bolton. She dies, calm and joyous at the information brought to her.

**The Iron Queen**

**1.**

"Winter has come." Lyella says, staring up at the angry grey clouds. Sansa and Arya stand with her, Rickon and Bran below in the courtyard with their youngest brother hanging off Lady Brienne of Tarth. "Fuck." She says, leaning forward, ignoring the cold snow below her arms as she looks down.

Sansa thinks she looks happier than when it was just she and Lyella up in Castle Black. But Sansa knows that it was because what hope had been taken from her in Essos had been reinstated. Lyella is happy, she sees that. Sansa sees the huge smiles as she takes a hand through Rickon's hair that he had shared with Robb. She hears the cackles she shares with Arya whenever they're in the ring holding the live steel swords, with many of the others Lyella had brought with her goading the two, desiring to watch the she-wolves of the North. Sansa watches as Lyella sits by Bran's side in the godswood, missing their father for the days where the three needed quietness and calm. Sansa feels warmth when Lyella stands behind her, plaiting her hair in Northern styles, thick braids, sometimes wrapped with coarse cloth or feathers her sister had found.

"I used to think that I would never miss the North when I went down south," Sansa says. Both her sisters look at her then, as she stared up at the grumbling clouds and sleet that falls. "But I missed it more than anything. I regret feeling so very happy that I went down there. You know, I think I forgot for a moment that I was a Stark of Winterfell and not a southern bride."

"I forgot my name when I went to Essos," Arya whispers, quiet in her mannerisms. She leans her back against the wooden beam, staring out of the stone walls that protected Winterfell, ice sharp as ice. "I became no one. I forgot what it was to be a wolf. But when I heard of what had happened here, of what will come – well, it's like the Stark roared back to me."

"When I found I couldn't burn, I didn't think I was a Stark." Lyella chuckles. Sansa wonders then, looks at the most Stark of them all. Their elder sister had always been their father through and through, noble and honourable but with the will to do what was needed and destroy what would destroy her. "I let the rage of fire whisper through me, let the dragon take over me. And then mother, father…Robb. I became ice that night, I think." Lyella looks at Arya then. "I think I felt what we all did when we remembered we were of the North, that no matter how far we leave it beckons us. Makes us the land, unforgivable and icy to all outsiders – but warm to those who know us."

"Oh yes," Arya grins here, her little sister had always known how to lighten the mood. Sansa had never liked it before, but now she let's Arya run rampant with her boisterous energy. "Like that wildling boy of yours. I bet he's feeling entirely warm with you."

"Oi! Don't speak to your queen like that!" Lyella laughs, smacking her sister and causes all three girls to laugh.

"Oh," Sansa says, smirking, "I don't know – I feel like that boy's fire burns every night he's between your legs."

"Sansa!"

"He'd combust every time with our darling, feisty sister." Arya laughs, letting her head hang back. "_Again, again! Oh it's coming, it's coming_!"

"_Oh, oh! It's rising, it's rising_!" Sansa mimics and Lyella goes absolutely red as she places her head in her hands.

"Oh would you two be quiet. You think I don't know about your smithy, Arya – I bet you lit his fire, right to his very heart," Lyella giggles and Arya winks. "And trust me Sansa, you'll make a man bloom one day."

Sansa smiles sadly then. When she had been young all she had dreamed were of knights, jousts and pretty words. She still dreams of them, still desires them in the way Arya wanted freedom and Lyella acceptance. Sansa Stark had watched her sisters give their hearts to men that the world demanded be low.

The three sisters stop their conversation as they hear footsteps. There comes Missandei and Daenerys. There's a sour look on Missandei and a Dany was a frightened thing. Sansa watched these two from the moment they came by Lyella's side, such girls with terrible pasts and thought her sister as hope. She hadn't known what to make of them, her sister's ear and the dragon rider whose loyalty laid only with her youngest niece. But she watches as her sister sits with the two of them, speaking in quick, glittering words unlike anything she's ever heard. The two girls were joined at the hips, and Sansa says nothing as they enter rooms together and leave together.

Lyella loves them. Appallingly so, so much that when Stannis Baratheon wished to burn the dragon-daughter, Lyella burned him with righteous fury and destitute disparity to what her sister stood as in her eyes. But Lyella loves Arya and Sansa too – had done so where she allowed the Freys choke on their breath and the some of the lions cry out in agony.

"Dany?" Lyella asks.

Dany extends a hand and Lyella takes the parchment in it. She unfurls it, eyes swiping through it, once, twice. Lyella hums and then orders for all her lords, all her bannermen, all rulers that hold fealty to her to appear in her halls.

Sansa stands near the dais that holds a simple wooden stool, etched with wolves, vipers, dragons and trouts. It's a silent whisper of allegiance that Lyella decides to hold – and she stares cruelly at those that speak against it. Her brothers and sister stand with her, the opposite side stand Dany and Missandei. Sansa knows they're a frightful image of years of perseverance and determination; women of chains and broken porcelain, undead boys as bright and alive as the Stranger could be. Their family speaks death. Their family had always been creatures of death and the Stranger.

But, Lyella is a thing of majestic beauty when she strides into that hall. The oak doors open. She wears a heavy dark grey coat, like their father. She wears her hair in plaits like their mother. Her face is set in the image of what their brother had once been. But there's a danger to her sister that Sansa thinks no one of her forefathers had ever been able to world, for her sister was tempered in fire and damnation, brought demons to image among her enemies and demanded justice with a strong iron fist.

"My blood-sister," She starts looking across at all her people. Lyella does that well, stands equal to them even though each and every one of them knew her power was an action of greatness. "Rhaenys Targaryen, first of her name, demands we bend the knee to her and all that fight for her." There is the roar of outrage as she had expected it. Sansa feels her face snarl, her body frozen in anger. "But I swore, when you placed this crown on my head – all those years, you never need bend to another person who demands shackles and staunches your growth. And I promise you, that North will not bow to what comes from the South. We will freeze the sun above, we will demand the terrible penance owed to us by the cowardly lions, we will rip the thorns for the roses that cloy our air, and we shall let the dragons beg our forgiveness."

There is a roar. A roar that only Lyella could ever demand be heard. She wonders whether the southerners hear their roar, whether they shiver at the coldness that arises from the north and strength that comes with the woman considered a living legend already.

Her sister stands, a queen chosen and thrusted into greatness she had cleaved as her own. Queen Lyella Stark, first of her name and queen of the North and the Riverlands, slave-queen and lady of ice. Her promises unbroken, from the moment they're uttered until they are finished.

Lyella Stark was a woman that was at once innocent, ruthless and bloodstained. She had known that what comes next would only face her sister's cold stone face, her iron will and call for absolution. For Lyella Stark was a creature that knew how to demand the vengeance and justice needed for a queen of their people. And as she stands, Sansa hears the words whispered among the crowd turning into a cacophony of demand.

For they shout, "Queen of the North! Queen of the North! Queen of the North!" as Lyella Stark sits on her throne.

* * *

**This was in response to the tragedy that was Season 8. I had wanted something far different than what we gave. Now while this is massively AU and absolutely made for my desires, I think and I hope that you all would have enjoyed it! Anyway, please leave a review, fav and follow! As always, you can find me on mallasia on tumblr :) See you next time!**


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